


The Batter

by White_Rabbits_Clock



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Baseball, Bats, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Physical Abuse, Rape, Starvation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-07-29 13:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 19,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7685617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Rabbits_Clock/pseuds/White_Rabbits_Clock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin Oakenshield is not a king, but the latest in a long line of Hunters- those sworn to protect the world by dealing with magical disturbances- and he is a fallen one. Years ago, he lost a large chunk of the dwarven population when he failed to deal with the infamous Smaug. Now he has a second chance. There's only one problem: he can't get near Smaug, because his territory is filled with innumerable traps and impossible to get through. The solution? A cranky, unsociable wunderkind by the name of Bilbo Baggins, who reportedly not only made it all the way to Smaug's stronghold, but back again with an item of great value.<br/>Now all he has to do is convince Bilbo to help... on the anniversary of his parent's death, no less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Rain streaked down and had done so for enough hours that the kid couldn’t stay inside anymore. So he had snuck out. For the dozenth time, he tossed the ball up and hit it dead center on its way down, sending it thudding into the wooden barrier, erected a few years ago for the kid’s use. He did it again, and again, the rain merely a fact, rather than a condition to him. He was thoroughly soaked, and couldn’t give less of a shit about it.

When his bucket of balls was almost gone, he stopped, finally tired enough to enjoy the sleep, the bath, the food, the scolding that would come at his reentrance to his home. He set about plucking each of sphere up and tossing them into their container. He’d clean them on the morrow, before it got hot; before he’d want to use them again. He looked around again and, seeing no more bits of mud streaked white, began to lug the bucket back towards the lean-to shed they were kept in. 

Doubtlessly, he’d find a couple later, but that was fine. Before he locked the shed, he rifled around and found, much to his delight, his lucky ball; the one that had a split seam that he himself had repaired. It was the first time doing so on his own, and the thing was now superstitiously special to him. He pocketed the ball, sitting in a bin of bric-a-brac separate from the others and, bat still in hand, and locked the shed. He headed towards the house but stopped halfway there, utterly still. He had heard a low growl.

Stupidly, it dawned on him that this had been a hard winter for the wolves, with the forests fairly overhunted before the season, the remaining larger game and some of the smaller ones had been penned in over the hard season to make sure that they survived. The wolves had suffered. They had howled all night and starved at all hours.

And here he was, a fat idiot out here alone, making a god-awful racket in the rain. The kid turned and gripped the bat in both hands, pushed back his bangs, shifted his center of gravity lower to the ground. The first animal charged, and the kid reacted, swinging the wooden bat hard enough to score a homerun. Or break a starved animal’s jaw.

Another wolf growled to his left, and the kid waited, remembering what his father had said.

It’s all about the moment, lad. 

The second wolf jumped, and suffered a sunken in skull. The third one caught in on the backside, fangs and claws slipping, gripping, ripping. The kid let out a roar and went for one savage eye. His whole back hurt, but he smiled, because the adrenaline was in his system, now, and he didn’t feel a thing. He charged and missed the moment, suffering a second rake of claws along one side of his ribs for his mistake. 

An almighty crack sounded in the yard, scaring off the only living wolf. The kid turned to see his father in the door, calmly lowering his arm.

“Da,” said the kid, dumb confusion rooting him to his spot in the mud.

“Fool boy!” he heard numbly as his legs folded and he sank down. That nap sounded rather nice, right then.


	2. Coersion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf does a little convincing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been thinking about doing a Steven Universe thing. What do you guys think?

Thorin looks up at the old house, recently washed but built years ago into the hillside. It’s green door hosts Gandalf’s mark, so Thorin swallows his apprehension and knocks. He has never done well with new people. Not as a child and certainly not now. The door swings wide, and he sees his nephew on the other side.

They exchange a smile. A clasp of forearms. Then Thorin is stepping inside. The place looks unlived in, for one. If you look past the mass of coats and boots and weapons overflowing from a shallow closet near the door, you can see that dust layers some of the less used pieces of furniture. Wooden tables and chairs look like they need a polish or three. 

The curtains, while not actually musty, seem close to it. Most notably, there are no nicknacks. No glass figurines or wooden carvings. No… what are they called? Doilies? Yes. No doilies, drawings, or decorative metal workings. No memoirs or toys can be seen on any surface in the entryway, the living room to the right, or the kitchen/dining room to the left. How unfitting for a hobbit's residence.

Whoever lives here doesn’t do so for much of the year, if at all. As Thorin steps into the dining room, he has the urge to hang back, to watch for the host before he sits at the table, but he doesn’t. He’s a Hunter. He has neither right nor room nor reason to be nervous about meeting yet another new person.

It’s not like he doesn’t have practice. 

He notices that the plates and cutlery the company are using are well made- thin, strong stone or steel. The food is well made, too, but most of it either not cooked at all or quickly done. Pickled everything is at the table, while some warm smell emanates from the kitchen. The host must be in there.

Thorin takes a saved seat and is handed a dozen slices of pickled ham, a glob of preserved cherries, and a cup of ale. All things that could last for decades if stored right. He nods his thanks to the passer- Dwalin- and eats quickly. He never does well at dinner conversation, so he’d like to be done with the eating before he has to meet the host. 

Eventually, just as Thorin’s downing the last of his ale, a squat man with brown, wavy hair and a large pot elbows his way into the room and sets what looks like dessert down on a flat disk that’s metal on top, stone on the bottom, meant to protect the table.

“Rice pudding,” the man announces in the sudden quiet. Standing on a chair, he scoops out the concoction onto passed plates and bowls. Thorin, curious, sends out and is given back his own. He looks closely. Smells it. Takes a bite. Mm. Cinnamon. The host has noticed that Thorin was not here when the eating started, and is now looking at him.

“Master Boggins-”

“Baggins.”

“This is Thorin Oakenshield, leader of our little band.” Thorin stands and makes his way over to… Baggins. Then he offers a hand. The whole company watches with some trepidation. It wouldn’t be the first time Thorin’s made this move. As soon as Bilbo places his hand in Thorin’s, the dwarf knows Gandalf was no liar, no matter where the sodding git is at the moment.

“I’d say you look like a grocer, but that’s a lot of calluses for a man who just sells food.” Thorin says, dropping the hand.

“Tell me: what’s your preferred Charm? You look like an earth man.” Bilbo jerks his chin up in a nod. 

“No preference. But it used to be wind.” Bilbo says. He glances at Thorin’s abandoned seat, then back at him.

“When Gandalf asked if I wanted to go on an adventure, I said no. But seeing as you all are apparently part of the adventure, what are you doing and where?” At the sentence, Thorin’s heart sunk. This not-grocer has already made his decision. He would not be gracing them with his company.

“Smaug. We’re going to go kill him.” But at least Thorin could see about the talk he’d heard on the man (he hopes that it is this man).

“And rumor has it that you know how to get through his territory,” 

“No.”

“And that you have something that’s important to him.” Bilbo gets quiet at that, eyes sliding away from Thorin’s, face getting a bit distant in remembrance. 

 

…

 

_ The hall was dank and dark, run down and dilapidated without the presence of its magical inhabitant. Bilbo crept over ruined stone, through wormwood and decay, towards the innermost room. Legend has it that there was something powerful there; so powerful as to be unnatural. Something Bilbo desperately wanted. _

_ It took him just under two hours to make it through the labyrinth, but he did, and without a single noise. He came upon yet another door that appeared to fall into as much disuse as everything else. But it wasn’t. Bilbo approached it and, taking a deep breath, laid a hand against the wood.  _

Hmm… you’re new, little one _ , a voice said out of the blue. _

Yes _ , Bilbo answered. They were not speaking with words, but rather, through the mind.  _

You wish for my help.

Yes.

But can you pay the price? 

What is it? _ Bilbo asked. He knew he would get what he came for, but he didn’t like surprises, so he would ask for the price first. A sick, dark laughter echoed inside his head is the door swung open soundlessly, well oiled hinges and potent magic more than enough to achieve the act. _

 

…

 

“And if I do?”

“Then I’d like to borrow it.”

“Why should I?”

“Because it’s time for Smaug’s rule to end.”

“But that's not a reason for me to get involved,” Bilbo says. He can’t give it up. Knows he can’t. Knows that to do so would be to pass on the curse. But he can’t say that. He’ll have to find a better reason.

“Because there’s something in it for you.” A new voice says. Bilbo looks past Thorin to see, at long last, Gandalf the Grey.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Bilbo says, sheep herding the idiot meddler down the hall and into his room.

“Hmm. I thought I was missing a mangy old coot.” Gandalf raised one withered finger.

“I’m neither mangy nor a coot. But I’m very old, so you got that part right, lad,” Gandalf said. “And, on the business side, this trip could have certain… beneficial side effects for you, Wunderkind.” Beneficial effects. The gall of that wizard… Bilbo stalks towards Gandalf.

“So let me get this straight, Oh Friend of Mine, you drop by the Shire on the anniversary of my parents death to try and pull me back into another mad quest and then told these dwarves that I have something they could use even though the very item in question was destroyed by me years ago, and then you want to talk about _beneficial_ ,” Bilbo spat. Gandalf has the sense to look just slightly guilty.

“Well, I needed you to see them.”

“So you ignored my wishes, lied to them, and now they came all this way for something that no longer exists.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because the Bilbo I knew would have jumped on this in a heartbeat.” Bilbo begins to nod sagely; a mockery of seeing the wisdom and logic.

“I did that, remember? And it didn’t work out so well.”

“Bilbo…”

“What?”

“That was for an entirely different reason.”

“It was because I had this half cocked idea that I could just get some supplies and money and prance off to the unknown to waltz through unknown challenges and then come out smiling and beautiful on the other side. I’m done with that shit, and don’t think you’re changing my mind.”

“I’ll give your wings back.” Bilbo froze.

“You’ll give my wings back.”

“I know how. Came across it last year and tested it out.”

“Fuck you.”

“I know, but they need your help. You are the only one who can get them through.”

“I hate you so much right now.” Gandalf looks genuinely hurt at that one, but Bilbo doesn’t care. Last year? At what point did he realize that this was a great blackmail tool?

“You promise you’ll give them back?”

“Yes.” Bilbo looks away for a moment.

“Then you have a deal.”


	3. The Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo has a little warning.

Last night, Bilbo had been dressed very hobbit-ish; a cotton brown waistcoat and white shirtsleeves over matching breeches with a small leather thong at the edge to tighten about the calf. Gold chain and pocket watch draped across from one pocket to the other, both that and the waist coat over black suspenders.

This morning, there are a few changes. For one thing, he’s not wearing a button down underneath the waistcoat (it’s more of a leather vest now, which has been buckled up to the neck) he’s wearing a broad sleeved tunic, under which he’s got arm guards and some hidden knives.  Under the vest is leather armor that stretches down his legs and a metal cup. A broad, pouched belt is passed about his hips, and secured to a strap is a bat, of all things.

The morning of their departure, a couple of new bags made their acquaintance with the rest of them in the hallway while Bilbo, having returned at the earliest hour with over four dozen eggs and a full pound of sausage per member and one fresh keg of beer, set about with the help of Hamfast Gamgee making breakfast.

“Hamfast,” Bilbo said as he dumped another load of scrambled eggs onto the ever filling serving tray. 

“Aye.”

“You’ll look after the house while I’m gone?”

“Don’t I always?”

“Yes. But this time, I might not come back. So, if I don’t, the house is entirely yours and your wife. The necessary papers are on my writing desk.”

“Are you sure?”

“This place was made for children, my friend, and I am no child, nor am I likely to ever have them.” Hamfast smiled the smile of an old man in a young body and clasped his arms around Bilbo’s waist.

“In case this is the last time,” he said. Then they went back to the eggs and sausage as dwarves began to trundle through their morning routines and the sun worked at the cool night temperature. 

Four hours later, Bilbo is twisted around in his saddle, looking at the Shire, a heavy feeling in his chest telling him that he won’t come back. But then again, he never was supposed to. He supposes that the last occasion in which he looked back was quite a bit different than this one. 

 

…

 

The graves were so new that not a weed had sprouted, nor had the earth settled atop the two new caskets yet. The sky, cloudy and heavy, but not yet raining, held against his skin the heat of day and the damp of a storm. Bilbo could hardly decide how to stand as he placed a flower atop each of the graves. But it didn’t matter. What did any of it matter, if he was to leave soon?

The following week, he handed, for the first time, the key to Hamfast Gamgee, climbed onto his pony, and rode away under a heavy cloud of grief and rain. A mile outside the settlement, Bilbo turned to look back, wondering if he would ever return.

 

…

 

“Did you like it here, Master Boggins?” Kili said. Bilbo turned back around in his saddle and ran a hand over the lower neck of his long-time companion, Myrtle. 

“No,” he said.

“Why?”

“It’s not big enough.” Kili turned his head and looked at the town. 

“All of this could fit inside Erebor.”

“Erebor?”

“Where we used to live. It was huge, with more than one floor. There were a thousand places to hide.”

“Huh.” Bilbo says, “what happened?”

“Got too small.” Fili says with a rye smile.

 

…

 

They travel to the West, towards the Blue Mountains, which, according to Bilbo, is where Smaug was last seen. As the sun sets on the little settlement and their band, something seems to loosen in Bilbo, and he leans back against the tree behind him and closes his eyes, presumably asleep. The dwarves look at each other. 

What kind of experienced traveller just goes to sleep before the fire’s even been banked? Thorin shakes his head and turns back to Gandalf. 

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“When have I ever not been sure?”

“Well, I do believe I’ve seen you blackmail at least one person before. It wouldn’t surprise me if that poor sod wound up in the same situation.”

“So? I have my reasons.”

“Yes, but things like this tend to fall apart.” Gandalf shakes his head.

“Just trust me.”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.” Bilbo says, not even bothering to open his eyes. Given that he’s a good distance away from the two of them, it’s uncertain how he managed to hear the two of them speaking. Thorin archs each eyebrow for just a moment. That seems to settle it.

“Quite the snake, that one,” he considers, “in fact, you might want to get a little distance, so it doesn’t hurt as much when he does it to you, he continues, never even opening his eyes.

“Speaking of wouldn’t, I should probably warn you that someone’s going to die at some point. I’ve never been to Smaug’s territory and not had someone die in the process,” Bilbo says almost flippantly. But not quite, as though it’s just a fact of life.

“Is it because of you or because of Smaug.”

“No idea. I’ve no idea if there are other wunderkinds out there who’ve returned for me to find out.”

“And you’re saying this because…?” Dwalin asks, slightly confused. Bilbo shrugs his shoulders. 

“Thought I should give you a fair warning. It’s warded off many a would-be hero.” Thorin looks at his band- the only people who still believe in his ability to protect them, and resolves to not let any of them be killed. He will disprove Master Baggins’ prediction, or die trying.

“Warning received,” Thorin says, tucking into the bowl of soup handed to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you guys enjoyed this, because I had writer's block all through writing it, hence why it took so long to finish. But I'm done now, so here you go! let me know what you think.


	4. The Flower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo pays a visit to Lobelia.

They are three days into their journey when Bilbo veers off course, headed away from the dry, vibrant greenery and into the wet kind. Thorin looks down at the wet ground and realizes that they must be headed towards a swamp or pond.

Bilbo stopped dead in his tracks.

“Fuck,” he says, then speeds up, running quietly through the undergrowth, company on his tail. When they break through the trees and in sight of the pond.

“Oh…” someone says to Thorin’s right. They have stumbled into a veritable Eden. Cherries in full bloom twist up and are interspersed with beautiful, arching willows drip long, vibrant hair down over odd plants with great flowers in warm and neutral colors, which seem to be surrounded by underbrush of its own. All of this is centered around a small, deep pond with natural rocks that form seats beneath the surface. Koi swim just close enough to the surface to see, and waterlilies bunch up against the far side. Springy grass with little white flowers that fades to moss over stones and near the water’s edge gives the whole place a feeling of lightness.

“Bilbo… what’s wrong with this place?”

“Fucking hell,” the hobbit says, walking confidently across the grass and directly to one of the strange plants. 

“She did not,” he mumbles as he places both small hands against the tight lips of one great, closed bloom. His hands seem to glow, as well as where he’s touching the flower. He closes his eyes and, after a moment, seems to rock back and forth with the plant for several seconds before the flower opens up and seems to regurgitate its insides.

Bilbo catches a solid lump amid the plant matter and mucus and turns to wash the thing off in the pond. Only then, as Bilbo runs a gentle hand over the top of it, do they realize that it’s alive.

“There was a child in a flower,” someone said, echoing the disbelief of everyone there. Bilbo rises and turns, the little thing’s naked, curled body tucked close to Bilbo’s long leather vest, one softly clenched hand visible. He looks down and the thing before holding him out directly in front of Thorin.

Years of raising Fili and Kili kick in and Thorin holds open his arms, accepting the creature before his brain can kick back into operation. Then Bilbo turns after a last gentle stroke over the forehead of the child.

“Lobelia, I know you’re here.”

“You should have left it alone. He wasn’t done yet.” The ground underneath Bilbo began to twist as grass grew at a rapid rate. Bilbo unhooks the bat from around his waist and holds it solidly in one hand.

“Who’s baby is that? You know I have to take it back now, right?”

“Relax,” the apparent owner of the little glade says as she steps into view. She’s wearing a white dress, although not of dwarven make. It bares her shoulders, chest, and upper back and flows down like weightless water around her soft, strong thighs, it’s lowest tendrils reaching mid calf, but the rest of it restrained to the bare knees. Vines seem to grow in intricate patterns across tanned skin and weave through a thick thatch of curly brown hair.

She raises her little pug nose at Bilbo and stalks, enchantress style, across the pond, feet not so much as getting wet.

“The parents are dead. It took all I had just to save the boy.”

“You used black magic.”

“And created life.”

“Sustained it. That’s different,” Bilbo responds, almost petty now that he and Lobelia are just inches apart.

“So… I have an idea,” she says, getting that much closer.

“You… ditch your little friends over there and stay here. Find out whether or not I’ve really just bred a monster of a child.” They are close enough to kiss now, although the lack of distance doesn’t seem to affect Bilbo at all.

“Or… I take him with me and leave you headless and dead in your own accursed garden.” Lobelia narrows her eyes at Bilbo.

“You know I will,” he says with a little one sided smirk.

“I’m beginning to doubt your ability, Baggins. You always say you can, but you never do.”

“Want to find out if I’m lying?”

“...no,” she says, finally, signally the other hobbit’s victory. Bilbo turns to one of the other flowers, sitting plump and healthy underneath a willow but not anywhere near as large as the one that Bilbo had worked his own magic on. He raises one hand and, with all five fingers extended, seems to do something to the flower, because it and every one of its strange brethren shrivel up and die in a matter of seconds. 

A blow from Lobelia promptly knocks him on his ass.

“How could you do that?!”

“You can’t just go around growing dark magic like they’re fuckin’ tomatoes.” Bilbo says, getting up and fingering his bat, while the rest watch with interest. They’ve never seen him use it.

“You do.”

“I don’t. Why do you think I don’t tend my own garden?”

“Because they’d kick you out.”

“Because I don’t have time to be literally killing my own demons.” With that, Bilbo spins around and stalks back to Thorin, collecting the little creature from him.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now while your back is turned?” she demands, one hand outstretched. Bilbo gives her another smirk.

“Because you are the first person I’d come back to haunt into insanity, of course. We’re done here.” he says to the dwarves and Gandalf. The old man has a strange, satisfied look. Outside the little glen, Bilbo removes a blanket from his pack and swaddles the baby in it.

“Does he even have a name?” Dwalin asks with a skeptical look. Children hardly do a journey good. Too vulnerable. But this one was borne from a flower. Mahal knows what should be done about him.

“Ah… I don’t know,” Bilbo replies with a perplexed look. It seems a name has only just now crossed his mind. Bilbo hoists himself up onto Myrtle, still with that expression, and the gang makes their way on.

They stop for the night, and Bilbo runs a hand over the infant’s slick of dark curls. He tries to feed him a piece of potato, only mildly warm, and, to the group’s relief, he eats it ravenously.

“Vegetables it is, then,” remarks Thorin. He removes an oft-scratched, round stone and his sword and begins the rhythmic motions of sharpening a blade.

“Aye.”

“You know you won’t be able to keep him,” Gandalf says. His voice is gentle, and Thorin can see why. Bilbo has already gotten attached to the little boy in his arms. It doesn’t bode well for the hobbit, since not even Gandalf is sure that he’ll be okay if someone he cares about gets hurt.

“Fuck off,” Bilbo responds just as softly. “And his name is Frodo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! I've been sitting on that for three weeks now.


	5. Chicken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarves get a surprise.

The false dawn is just an hour off when Bilbo rises. He sets Frodo in Kili’s arms with a stern look. It says all that needs to be said. He rifles around the pile of gear left out for the morning and recovers a half dozen empty water skins.

Setting those aside, he peruses the firewood, stoking the flames to life before picking up the skins and trotting the off. It takes him fifteen minutes to fill the bags and hook the leather thongs around his belt. 

He freezes, sensing that something has changed. He reacts quickly, backing up into the treeline and stepping behind a trunk, waiting patiently as what looks like a lone hobbit wanders silently and unobserved across bright green, springy grass. Bilbo, leans his head back against the trunk and breathes carefully, chest hardly moving at all. 

He counts the seconds. At ten, the aura moves closer… closer. No amount of water could stop this. At just a handful of yards away from him, it stops. Dwells. Breathes. At eighty nine, starts to fade away. His chest loosens as it drifts farther and farther from him. He peaks out from behind the tree slowly. The water skins are gone. Goddamn it. 

Bilbo retreats, springing with the three remaining skins banging against his thighs until he gets back to camp, where he stops just outside of it, behind a tree, and catches his breath. Then he trolls back in, setting handing the water to Gloin. 

“Where are the other three?”

“Wraith,” Bilbo says, turning and stuffing his things in his pack (in an orderly manner, of course) before slinging it up onto his back and over to Meryl, where the old girl stands patiently as one of the last of the ponies to be loaded up. The only other one still tethered is Thorin’s horse, as he took Frodo at some point.

Bilbo would have to find someplace to put that boy. He’s just too much of a liability out here. Bilbo reclaims the boy with a grateful nod to Thorin and passes the word about the wraith. They tend to travel in groups, so one seen during the day could be anywhere from just that one to two dozen at dusk.

In short order, the company is once again on the road, ponies making fast tracks along the way until Bilbo suddenly twists his head around, seeming to see something. Before he can even open his mouth, everyone’s sliding off the ponies and scattering into the woods, including Bilbo, who crouches with Meryl behind a tree. A lone hobbit walks, then, down the road. He seemed normal enough, with the exception of the fact that he had no baggage and was deathly quiet (although Bilbo could also be that silent). After crouching in the same spot for twenty minutes, Bilbo quietly leads Meryl back to the road, followed by the others, and makes fast tracks. 

“He’s not lost his mind, has he?” Thorin asks of Gandalf.

“No. He’s as sane as you’ll ever find him.”

“We hid from a hobbit. A _ hobbit _ ,” he says, genuinely upset over it.

 

“Well, if it bothers you that much, I suppose I’ll explain.” Thorin wanted to explain fist to mouth right then.

“Bilbo, as you know, did go and return from Smaug’s territory, and it has-”

“Mind your own business, old man,” Bilbo snaps from where he’s turned around, torso twisted so that it looks like he’s riding backwards, eyes seeming to burn for a moment.

“So explain it yourself,” Gandalf answered back tritely. There’s a moment of silence, with Bilbo looking from Gandalf to Thorin, and then:

“That was not a hobbit. That was a wraith. We can let it see us now and fight it in the middle of the road, or wait until nightfall, where it will become solid and I can burn it and harvest its fingers and toes for charms.” Bilbo keeps a straight face. Kili chokes.

“You do that?”

“I do that.” Bilbo turns back around in his saddle and rides the rest of the way.

“How do you know they aren’t going to ambush us before we get where we’re going?” Thorin says 

“I own this road, and much of the magic that protects it is the doing of my father and mother and myself. Up and down on either side of it is the outer edge of hobbit territory, which, as you know, is owned in chunks and pieces by the richer families. I have a plot at the very end with powerful shields and deadly countermagic sewn into it. We can make for there, and then I’m going to play chicken with a wraith or two.” Bilbo explained.

Thorin looks from Bilbo to the road, which twisted and curved in broad, clear swaths through the overgrowth of forests on either side.

“Very well,” he says, ceding control of their direction to the guide for the day. They would have a talk about this later though. But only later. He doesn’t want to make a damn scene.

Deep green foliage passes around them and seems to be silently pining to do so over them as well. It is almost alive with the want. For his part, Bilbo ignores the feeling. He owns this road, as did his mother before him, and her mother before that. It will do as he says.

Not once did they run into the wraith again, or any of his friends if they were there. As the evening wore on, they began to move faster, the tension coiling in the air. The sun has begun to set, and their destination needs to be made before nightfall. 

They strike off from the beaten path, having kept to its safe harbour all day. Thighs and animals are slapped by overgrown plants as Bilbo guides them out into the wild territory beyond what he had carefully seen to for years now.

The place was a live with a strange watchfulness that wasn’t quite there, wasn’t quite imagined. Every rustle felt loud to the dwarves’ ears and every muted hoof felt like thunder as they all but galloped between the trees as the last of the light faded from the sky. 

Though none of them saw it, they certainly felt it when they passed thorugh the barrier. It was as though, for a moment, a hand had reached into their chests, held close their strong, fragile hearts, and deemed them worthy. It was as though a vengeful god was watching, and had chosen to gift them with a blind eye. 

They stopped just inside, with Bilbo quickly sliding down and unhooking Frodo from where the quiet lad- one who doesn’t hardly stir when left alone- had been fitfully woken from his sleep. He handed him up to Thorin, who suddenly realized how much of a miracle it was that the child did not cry out.

With the rest of the company watching, Bilbo strode with the confidence of a man who’s danced with death many a time up to the barrier and stepped through, standing just on the other side of it. 

Unfettered by bags or baby, he waits, chest almost not moving, eyes unseeing; you don’t use eyes for this. Suddenly, he jumped back, and the place they had crossed went up in flames, burning alive two hobbits- the wraith from earlier and his friend- in the wall.

When the tinge of light has gone and the smell of burned flesh is heavy, but no longer increasing, Bilbo takes up an arm from each of his victims and drags them inside the shield, tongue sliding out to lick his bottom lip.

“Now I can make those charms,” he says.

“What charms?” Thorin answers.


	6. Strategist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group questions Bilbo's character and his ability to strategize.

“This is dark magic,” Thorin states, hard gaze sliding critically from Bilbo’s face, to the corpses lying behind him, to the pot. Twenty fingers and twenty toes roil around the small black pot. It was too small for cooking much in, which bothered Thorin somewhat, as travelling warlocks and witches are known to possess such a pot.

It’s mostly dark warlocks who have them, as their residences are more often attacked.

“I know, but if you’re going to walk into Smaug’s lovely little home, you’re going to need a little extra protection,” he says as he fishes out a vial from the rawhide necklace under his vest and bites off the cork. A couple bits of dried leaves fall into the pot with the rest of the things he’d already put there.

“And yet, I feel like decapitating you,” Dwalin says, lighting his pipe.

“Everyone gets it eventually; don’t worry. It won’t pass,” he says light hardheartedly as he dips a metal spoon into the pot and stirs it around. Dwalin dignifies that with a snort and not much else.

Bilbo dips the ladle in again in several minutes and fishes out the flesh, which had hardened to pale oblong pearls. He dumps them out onto the flat stone floor surrounding the fireplace. They steam a bit while Bilbo pulls the pot off the fire and leaves it sitting next to the pit, cooling.

“Are you sure we can’t open up the windows?” Dori asks, thoroughly pissed at having to sit in a room with no ventilation while Bilbo brews up his… things.

“Sorry. I’d do it in the main house, but I’m not trying to sleep in the stench all night,” he says, poking at one of the shorter lumps. Ori looks around.

“So who owns what and how do things work in Hobbiton, exactly?” Ori asks. It’s his job to record the journey, and not much is known about hobbit territory, which is not good, considering the fact that more than a few wunderkind are hobbits.

“Oh… well, come to think of it, there are a handful of main families which, in order of importance are: the Tooks, the Baggins, the Bracegirdles, the Sackvilles, the Gamgees, the Fairbornes, the Chubbs, the Lightfoots, the Proudfoots, and the Zaragambas. All of these make up the top tiers. Everyone else falls somewhere lower on the gradient.”

“What makes them important?”

“A few things: magic, wealth, and activity. The Tooks are the most important family because they create strong warlocks and witches, have the greatest influence on and activity in the public, and own a good amount of land outside of the Shire.

“So the Baggins…”

“Half my family’s reclusive. The other half does a good job of keeping up, but without the current head- that’s me, by the way- in the eye of the community, they’ll remain where they are, since they produce the most powerful hobbits, and, of course, own a lot of land.

“What all do you have to do to be “active”? Bilbo shrugs his shoulders as he takes a seat and faces Ori.

“Most of the time the most stable member of every family- not just the upper tiers- will form a council, which will organize the inner workings of the Shire. The most balanced is often the heir to the fortune, and the most powerful after that the right hand man and part of the protective groups.

“And the rest?”

“Well these little plots on either side of the road divided up so that each family has at least one. They’re used for the unstable members of families.”

“How can you tell if there’s corruption?”

“The amount of unstable magic in the family rises. Magic can drive a body with a weakness mad, and it shows when that weakness is a mental one,” he says, picking up a piece of his work and examining it. He tosses it to Thorin.

“Well?” It seems to hum, and yet it is perfectly still. Inf act, it’s almost like the little toe of a wraith had never been magic at all.

“Gandalf?” he says, turning to look at the tall wizard.

“I believe you should defer to master Baggins’ judgement. He is, after all, the guide,” Gandalf says. He seems to be trying to make what he did up to Bilbo. Thorin looks back at the piece in his hand, then at Bilbo, who seems to be amused by something- he’s always amused by something, really.

“By rights I should turn you over to Mordor. But, if Gandalf trusts you, then I will, as well,” he says, tossing the piece back.

“But we don’t know that he can actually strategize,” Dori points out, not unkindly. He runs a broad hand over Frodo’s little head, shushing his minute stirrings.

“This is true,” Thorin answers, by way of challenge. Bilbo shrugs.

“The Mordoran Seige.” Thorin looks at Dwalin. They’d had to help clean that mess up.

“How? That was a massacre.” Bilbo gives a sarcastic smirk and a small giggle as he leans closer to the fire, which throw sharp shadows all the harsher across his face, catching on his soft, round cheeks, nose, chin, mouth, and eyes.

“One that I engineered.”

“Why?”

“Revenge. What else would I willingly go back for?” Thorin locks eyes with Oin across the fire.

“I was not aware that you’ve been.”

“You’re not aware of a lot of things I’ve done, but if it’s proof you want, then it’s proof you’ll get.” Bilbo twists his torso around, reclaiming the boy, who’d begun to fuss a bit. He held and rocked him until large round eyes close for the final time this night and then looks back up at Thorin.

 

…

 

_You know it’s your own choices that have brought you to this place. Just not the choices you thought it would be. Minhas stands behind you with the rest of their little group, holding a bag of gold. 150 castars for a black warlock, 200 for a pre-secured one._

_Your gut twists as they push and shove you up into a wagon with rotted straw in one corner and moldy, splintery floorboards under your feet. You trip, large feet acting against you with the onset of exhaustion and shock. Your back hurts where they kicked you. You’re wrists hurt where they bled you of all they could take without killing you. You’re head is cold where they cut away your hair. Everything aches with this harness that grips your neck like a collar and secures your hands on either side. Fingers are numb with the pain of having them broken, arms from being held up so long, neck red from the chafe of rough, magicked wood._

_You can’t see through one eye, black and bloody as it is, but strong, broad, weathered hands pull you as well as they are able into sitting down next to him. You look over and see that he is no hobbit, but a stocky dwarf, his own hair shorn like yours, his own face a mass of bruises, though the swelling is much more mild, and the internally spilled blood yellowing in it’s older age._

_“You’ve really gotten yourself into it, haven’t ya, lad?” He asks in a quiet voice. You just look at him._

_“They were my allies,” is all you can mumble. All you can think of as the wagon jerks into motion and you bite your tongue bloody to keep the noise in._

_“How old are you?”_

_“39,” you say, distracted as you realize that there are other occupants in the wagon. A man who takes up the entire far end, moldy straw and all sleeps, having lost interest in the new piece of meat added. A Bree hobbit lays motionless next to him, and you think he may be dead under all that matted, dirty hair. At any rate, he doesn’t react to the jolting of the wagon._

_“Young, aren’t you?”_

_“Old enough,” you say, sadly, sitting back gingerly and looking up at the dirty ceiling._

_“Doesn’t surprise me. Listen, kid, where we’re going… you’ve ever been to Mordor?”_

_“No.”_

_“Well, if you live through the first year, it’ll make you mean. You come out on top in any fashion, and it’ll make you vicious and cold. You’re going to need that.”_

_“Why?”_

_“With that kind of harness on you, you’ve got to be powerful- maybe even more powerful than they can compensate for. You can get out, but you’ve got to keep your head, and they’ll try their damnedest to take that from you; make you mad, like the rest of the poor bastards  you’ll meet are. Like I might end up. So keep your head, even when they play with it and crush it, aye?”_

_“...aye,” you answer, finally, and pass into sleep._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god guys, the full Mordor story is just under 5 pages long. I don't know if I'm going to break it up into one or two more chapters. Let me know what you think! LOL when the muse won't cooperate for months on end and then suddenly you spit out a seven page long chapter.


	7. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo continues to remember

He was right. You wake up, weeks later, colder, skinnier, with infections in every open wound and fingers useless and in need of amputation, to the great stone entrance of Mordor.  You see, written above the great rock doors, in dwarvish, sindaran, and common: 

 

Those who come, stay.

 

You try to shake your head, but the harness stops you. The wagon- one several changeovers removed from the original- stops, the doors are opened, and the guards pull you and the dwarf and the man out (the other hobbit had, indeed, died) and they strip you and beat you and knock you unconscious, and you wake up in a room where there is no force or stone or rot or damp. In fact, there’s nothing. It’s all white; white walls, floors, and ceiling. You don’t know which way is up or down because there’s no mark anywhere and no gravity to guide you either.

There’s a ringing- high pitched and soft, that suddenly blares to full volume, and you hold back the scream the first time. The second time. The third time. But they do it again and you can’t help but add your own noise to the fray. You just want it to stop.

The next thing they do to you is put you in a room with crushing force which sticks you to the floor and stops you from moving. You can’t see anything, and it feels like you are choking. 

Then there’s more violence. More white. More black. You don’t know how long they do this but you lose all dignity. All pride. All respect. All awareness except for the moment, and the moment cows you. 

One day they take you to a room with long stone tables and strap you down. There are people who do things to you; who test you. Who poke and prod at you. They bleed you too. A bag of your blood is valuable. You think they’ve done this before but you can’t remember. Don’t want to. Don’t think you could handle it if you did.

You’re taken to a small room with barren, rock walls, no furniture, and a barred door and left there alone. All you do is sleep. They come for you again. They do what they want with you again. You’re left to sleep. You don’t know how long they do this, but one day you wake up on your own; there’s no one here to do anything. You see food down by the slot under the door, and you move off the bed and pick it up. It’s only as you’re bent over, fingers clasped around the dented tin pan, that you realize nothing is injured. Your fingers are completely healed. 

So is the rest of you.

You eat ravenously. It tastes like shit, but you don’t care, stomach hollow from who knows how long without anything in it. You eat so fast you gag.

“Don’t you dare throw up in here,” a voice says, and you stop, choking back vomit. You need to keep it down. You don’t know when they’ll have more. You sit there, on you knees, resisting the urge to give in until it goes away.

“Maybe wait a bit before you eat the rest kid,” the voice says, and you realize it’s the dwarf from the road.

“Why are you here?” 

“Me? I was causing a bit of a corpse problem in Erebor. You know how that goes,” he says, sitting up and watching his cell mate, look around.

“What were you doing?” The dwarf says next.

“Experiments.”

“What kind?” 

“Plants. Trying to see if I couldn’t create one that could raise the dead. I couldn’t find what I was looking for, though, so I travelled. Fell in with a group of outlaws. They sold me.”

“It’s always the allies that cut the deepest, isn’t it?” The dwarf says as he takes a closer look at you. 

“They did a good job, didn’t they? Aside from the collar, you almost look like a proper hobbit.”

“Proper…?” You ask, confused. Proper hobbits look nothing like you do, all dirty and stinky and so hungry that this slop they gave you tastes like life.

“Fat. You’re not quite there, but, hey, maybe they’ll like the aesthetic.”

“They?”

“The guards. Make them happy, and you’ll get extra stuff. Clothes. Seasoning for the food. Less of a rough landing when they bring you to the overseers or back here.”

“How do I make them happy?”

“Depends on the guard,” the dwarf raises a hand from where it rests slung over his knee. “Some of them like to get their cock sucked. Some of them like to fuck. Learn to deep throat and you’ll be able to avoid the latter, for the most part. Learn to heal yourself with what little scraps of magic they don’t drain from you and you won’t get caught. It makes you feel like their bitch, but that’s the reality anyways. May as well make the most of it.” you look at your hands, as dirty as the rest of you. You remember what he said earlier about keeping your head; that you had to find a way to do it even when you’ve lost your goddamn mind. 

You know you won’t make the year without help from the guards. Not on this fare. Not with these punishments for your crimes. You look at the dwarf. He was ugly by hobbit standards, with his prominent forehead and aquiline nose, bushy black brows and beard and missing hair and half his face disappeared with shadow, cheekbones standing to attention with hunger. Yes, he’s ugly to a hobbit, but you have spent a great deal of time in the world now; nine years of travel. Of theft and skirmishes with others. And you never were close with anyone. Not in that way. It wasn’t until you went to Bree and met a man with similar features. So you swallow the last of the bile, eat the last of the food, and look him in the eye.

“Would you teach me?”

He was right. Deep throating saved you from taking it up the ass and earns you a lot of things you aren't supposed to have. It was a comfort- if something of a cold one- to know that the dwarf (who called himself Midas) did what he taught you to do. There was less shame when those bigger and badder than yourself did it too.

A year indeed draws close in much the same cycle, except they have added time where they let you loose to run around to your mean little heart’s content. At the point when you are almost yourself again between blood lettings and experiments, Midas clasps you in the middle of the cell in the middle of the night and presses a bristly kiss to your forehead.

“We have made it to one year. The next part of life will begin soon,” he says, then lays down and goes back to sleep. You join him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol look at that. Exactly one week after I posted the last one. Guess what? there's another chapter of this. Aren't you guys happy? Let me know what you think of this.


	8. Not Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of Bilbo's memory of Mordor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Most of the new tags happen in this chapter (including the one about rape), so if you aren't cool with any of it, go ahead and skip to the ellipses that ends the italics and read that and the end notes. I've left you a summary.

_ The following week, when it’s so cold that someone must come and give you cloaks to not freeze to death (you and Midas have the best) the guards come for you and take you not to the room with the long stone tables but to a tall, drafty passageway. The guard turns to the two of you and motions with his hands, and your collars open. _

_ “Go out there and fight,” he says, “and if you win three times in a row, you are free,” Then the gate comes up. _

_ They beat you to a bloody pulp, and you spend a full week asleep, unable to let blood or be an experiment for two. They they put you back in the ring, and you get beat a little less. It costs you a hand to win your first fight, and they put it back on, catch all the blood you spill, and send you back to sleep. When you wake up, your arm is fine, and there’s a guard in front of you. He’s got a big cock, and you want to choke him sometimes.  _

_ You don’t let it show that you’ve just noticed that your ass hurts and that it’s weirdly slick. He winks and leaves, and you curl up in a ball in the corner and don’t move until the door opens again and Midas walks in. He sees you and stalks over, crouching down to see your face. _

_ You’re forty-one years old. This should not be happening. _

_ “I know. I know,” he murmurs quietly as he hauls you up and sits with you cradled against him. He sacrifices some of his remaining magic to heal you, but you still feel the phantom pains. Your pants are still wet from the blood and the cum. You don’t think the guard used oil. _

_ You’ve developed a relationship with this Midas. This raiser of corpses. This man who terrorized Erebor and it’s surrounding human towns. You like to tell yourself that it’s just because the guards never see you, the person, just your  mouth, and Midas isn’t like that. But you know that’s not true, that there’s something about Midas that makes you want to stay with him, hidden in the corner. You move your head a bit. _

_ “I’ll kill them,” you breathe, tears still wet on your plump cheeks.  _

_ “I’ll kill them all. That guard’s head is going on a fucking spear. I’m going to make an example of this place if it’s the last thing I do,” you say quietly before falling into a deep and sombre silence. Midas runs a hand down his side. _

_ “And I’ll be right with you.” _

_ You don’t retaliate against the guard, but one day you will. Even as he’s dislocating your jaw with the force of his thrusts, even as he’s choking you with the frequency, you know you will and you vow to do it.  _

_ The next month, you win your third fight. You’re left to sleep it off, but Midas doesn’t give you the opportunity. He tells you in a low whisper that it’s at this point they’ll harvest his soul- the fights are a test, and you have proved ready. He tells you everything he knows, and you wait patiently for the footsteps, feigning sleep. _

_ Having your soul ripped out is like having your body torn to pieces by a hundred invisible hooks. But you fight it, even as you hear the sounds of threads snapping. You hang on even as you feel your chest begin to cave in from the pressure. You hang on you hang on you hang on so hard that a final pull in your direction snaps through whatever spells they used to pull your soul out, to hold you down, to render you immobile. _

_ They all snap, and you kill every last overseer in sight. Then you run, following Midas’ knowledge and your own back down to your cell, killing every guard you see. The one who raped you is not here, but you’ll find him. You open the door to the cell, bringing out your only friend and you run together ever deeper, aiming for the cores that power this place. One by one you shut them down, marshalling your mind to ignore the pain. _

_ It creates a massacre. In that massacre, you go after the guard and stop the cut of his sword down on an injured warlock. You tackle him and dig your claws into his chest, twisting while he screams and digging through cartilage, muscle, and fluid to grab and tear out the heart. You bring it to your mouth and, to the sounds of his dying screams, bite hard, getting blood everywhere. _

_ More liquid than the heart can contain seems to come from the removed organ, and the stuff seems to be squirming along the veins of the still barely alive guard to converge on his skin; to flatten, lengthen, gain definition. To form armor of a red so deep it is nearly black.  You look around at the room, which contains all the most powerful of the inmates of Mordor. He smiled, fangs coming out, pupils red with the influx of a true dark warlock’s fuel.  _

_ You stand, leaving the body to quiver and die, and stand straight and proud.  _

_ “We can either work together and kill those who have imprisoned us, or we can kill each other off and get no where!” you say. The upper levels have been blocked off, by now, and the overseers and remaining guards intend to starve them out. Midas, next to him, watches his back. After a nod from dozens of the most dangerous criminals in Middle Earth, you and your new army go to the great iron door that blocks off what the inmates referred to as the stairway to hell.  _

_ They break it open. Without the cores several levels below them, the gate doesn’t stand a chance. In the ensuing battle nearly everyone dies; the rage of the inmates evenly matched against overseers who harvested their blood and power.  _

_ When it is over, the head of the prison is down on the ground under Midas’ boots, snarling and snapping and utterly fearful. _

_ “Why? You could have a slice of the pie. The others are all dead,” he says, trying to parley with a dwarf who’d spent over two years in this hellhole. _

_ “Don’t you remember me? When you were just starting and you wanted to see a fight for yourself?” _

_ “No, I don’t.” _

_ “Well, I remember you.” Then Midas gouges holes in the chest of the warden, digs out the heart, and eats it, following in Bilbo’s steps. _

_ That day three survivors walked out of Mordor, and you make sure to leave it burning the night sky: an announcement that you went to hell and won. _

 

…

 

He doesn’t tell them everything, of course, but all the important bits get out, and that's what matters. After all, he could never tell another soul what had happened to him; he wasn't weak, had hated it when he was, and had resolved a long time ago never to be anyone's toy again. So he didn't speak of what the guard had done or what he and Midas had done for the guards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically Bilbo is given a deal: win three fights in mordor and go free. He does and instead of going free, they try to harvest his soul, which fails. He escapes and flees to his cell, where he frees Midas, and two stage a rebellion, in which Bilbo gets his revenge on a guard who raped him while he was unconscious. and he and Midas rip out the hearts of that specific guard and the warden and eat them create powerful blood armor, which is an advanced black magic spell that turns blood, pain, hatred, and will into a suit of armor almost impenetrable. See you next time.


	9. Trade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Thorin strike up a deal.

“This might not be a good idea,” Thorin mentions to Bilbo as the latter draws up alongside the former.

“Yeah?” Bilbo says?” Tomorrow, they’ll diverge either slightly left or slightly right, depending on this conversation. 

“Because it’s a marketplace.”

“We need supplies.”

“We don’t have to get them there.”

“This one has the largest collection of magical artifacts around, and I broke my staff some time ago.”

“If all we’re buying is a staff and regular crap, then we can get it elsewhere. Besides, aren’t you powerful enough to turn anything into a staff?”

“Well, sure, but it’s better if there’s a base to start with. Plus, there’s a specific merchant that should be there.” For a moment, the conversation dies between them. 

Thorin and Bilbo are natural enemies, as Thorin is a Hunter, and Bilbo would normally be his prey. How the latter had lived to be this powerful without Thorin hearing at least a whisper of him is a mystery. People like this make powerful enemies with deep pockets.

That being said, it can be incredibly hard to talk to each other.

Thorin takes a moment to relax his mind; to feel the natural ebb and flow of all the living, the nonliving, and the dead all around him. Just as quickly, he snaps back into his mental fortress. Bilbo is disturbingly powerful, but his aura is small; it doesn’t make it more than a few centimeters beyond his skin. It takes a lot of practice to do that, but Bilbo seems young, as though he’s not far past the naivety of childhood.

“Baggins,” Thorin finally muscles past the apprehension that usually comes with talking to their resident guide.

“What?”

“How old are you?” For a moment, Bilbo doesn’t answer, opting instead to tilt his head back a bit and look up at the sky.

“Hundred and thirteen.”

“You seem younger.”

“I get that a lot.”

“Were you really born in Hobbiton?”

“Yes. Is it hard to believe?”

“They aren’t known for their black warlocks.”

“Hobbiton didn’t make my magic.”

“What did?”

“Me.”

“No one just ‘makes’ their magic.”

“Well, I did.”

“Liar.”

“Here’s an idea: I’ll match you story for story.”

“How do you know I have a story?”

“I can feel it.” It’s silence again. There may come a day where Thorin has to hunt him down. Information like what he stands to gain now, with no one else close enough to hear them, could prove invaluable later.

“Fair enough. But I asked first, so you go.” Bilbo gives a wane smile, eyes going a little unfocused as he looks into the middle distance.

“I… was not lonely, as a child, but I didn’t have friends. Most of my family would not talk to me either. I suppose I was strange, but I wasn’t aware of it at the time. As it stands, the only ones I was close to were my parents. My father was adept at earth magic, my mother at the sky. I was good at plants. They said that eventually I’d be able to untangle my abilities into their two origins. I never got around to it.

“That established, it was… devastating when they died. First my father, then my mother, of fever and grief, respectively. I was desperate, and young, and very, very stupid. I did my duties as the head of my house and as their only offspring; funerals, business, et cetera. But at night, when I couldn’t ignore how alone I was, I’d search the library.

“I read book after book on magic, first skimming, then cover to cover, sure that I could find a way to have my family back. But the library didn’t hold the secret to life. So I stretched my search. Books by the crate came in, and, between them, I practiced my magic. 

“I brought a hobbit gored by a bull back from the brink of dead; lifted the same magical fever that killed my father from an elderly hobbitess out of her mind with delusions. I learned the art the soul and brought someone else back to the edge of grief. I revived someone four minutes after their heart had last beat.

“And I did experiments. Seeds considered useless for being ruined were my subjects, but even they had a small measure of life, however feeble. They grew strong and beautiful in my later attempts, but their ancestors were strange, semi sentient, pained monsters. By the time, I’d created sentient plant soldiers, strong and unmarred by alive all the same.

“I was so good at saving the hopeless that they started to call me the Witch Doctor. Still, though, never once had I brought something back from the dead that did not already have at least a little bit of life in them. The answer to my question eluded me.

“And then travellers brought with them a strange tale of a dark master who would give you anything you wanted, provided you pay with your soul. At first I didn’t believe it; no one was that powerful. But the stories kept coming.

“One day, another Wayfarer- one only mediocrely powerful, the last I’d seen him, walked in. He was so powerful I could taste his aura and I wasn’t even looking. Even when I closed myself off, I could still sense it. He slew his four greatest enemies, all there that night, on the spot. 

“A year later, he was hit by a cart and died on impact. That’s when I knew the stories were true. So I set about gathering more information. In six months, I’d been able to go back and uncover everything I would be able.

“I delegated my responsibilities, wrote a will and testament, and left for what many called an evil god. I was not mistaken. I made it through his stronghold and stood before him. I traded my soul and my eyes for the chance to raise my parents; my family was within my grasp again. 

“He took my eyes because that’s what I saw aura through; that’s what I healed through. When I traded my life for theirs, I lost my magic, and found it again in the pool of all the things I’d was willing to do to get what I wanted.”

“But you can see now.”

“It’s the magic. I’m never not using it,” Bilbo turns to Thorin with a smirk.

“Your turn.”

Thorin takes a moment to collect his thoughts. He thinks Bilbo may have just revealed what Gandalf said could make the difference between this quest’s failure and success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to follow my fandom blog on tumblr. I also have a writing blog, if anyone would like that one.


	10. Name and Number

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin tells the story of Erebor, and gains a little more information besides.

“Erebor  was, for a very long time, said to have a beating heart. It was used as an old adage used by children and adults alike. ‘Don’t upset the Heart.’ ‘By the Heart what have you done?’ but I think only a few actually believed in the Heart’s existence.

“So, well over four hundred years after people stopped believing in the Heart, the kingdom falls apart. The king was a greedy one, and the Heart, being alive and the mountain highly susceptible to its whims, felt the greed and the violence and hatred it caused. While people struggled over copper pieces, the Heart… set out to cleanse its home. We dwarves were forced out, and, as its soldiers came, one of them attacked my sister. This was the moment when my magic manifested itself.” Bilbo nods.

“Sounds interesting. But I feel as if I might have been cheated out of a good story,” Bilbo says cavalierly.

“The story of Erebor is hardly good.”

“You say that, but I have a taste for the macabre.”

“You sound like it.”

“So tell me the story of Erebor.”

“Why?”

“Because we had a deal.”

“And I fulfilled it.” 

“Well, well, Thorin of the mysterious origins only does things half way. That doesn’t bode well for this quest, good sir.” There’s something about BIlbo that makes it easy to talk to him. Easier than most people, anyways. It helps that they’ve been on the road for a while and Bilbo has already proven himself, both in humor and in ability.

“Fine. What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about the… what did you call them? Soldiers?”

“They weren’t large, maybe as tall as my hip.”

“Short indeed, then.”

“Stuff it. In any case, they weren’t big but they were mean beasts made entirely of stone or gems. Quartz dogs with bright white eyes attacked in hordes. Anything and everything they saw fell prey to their slobberless jaws.

“They came from deep down, and their howling was heard years ahead of time. When that final day started to get close, the noise would go on for hours or days on end. The minister said it would be bad when he heard it in the later months.

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you ever hear them howl?”

“Yes. It was quite eerie.”

“What sort of howl was it?”

“... it sounded like they were grieving.”

“Were they?”

“They could have been. They certainly weren’t happy.”

“Why not?”

“Erebor dwarves were ill. We were too taken with treasure. With wealth. With power. It seemed as though a slight obsession had turned overnight into a creeping, invisible plague in our brains.

“Why did it take so long for them to come up out of the mountain’s roots?” Thorin tilts his head up and looks at the clear blue sky above their heads. With the sun warming his back and fresh air sliding smoothly around him, he misses the tunnels of Erebor. In the end, he shrugs. 

“This is a Heart we’re talking about. Perhaps it held love for those living above it, once upon a time, and did not wish to act in haste,” he muses.

“Do you miss it?”

“Like a severed limb.” The next several minutes pass in silence.

“Do you ever let yourself think about it?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Why would I? It is lost; when dwarves dwelt within the mountain, we took it and twisted it into something it did not wish to be. It would not take us back if we begged and never again took axe to rock to reach the gold.”

“Sometimes remembering is all you have, when it comes to lost things.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

“Why?” Thorin asks, cross now with the uncomfortable line of questioning.

“I will tell you as my father told me. Those who forget the past are due to repeat it.” Thorin looks over at Bilbo sharply.

“You think I’m going to catch it.”

“Not that in particular, but something.”

“What would you know about the madness of the mountain?”

“I know I’ve slain dwarves so deeply entrenched in remembering the bounty of Erebor that they didn’t realize they’d been gravely injured until they were already dead.” Thorin stills at that, heart beating hard in his chest.

“The madness died when we left.”

“I assure you, it’s alive and kicking, if it is indeed what you described it as.”

“How…” the dwarf mutters, heavy brow drawn down over his hooked nose. Bilbo has to stop himself from smiling. Whether he knows it or not, the dwarf is quite handsome.

“Given what I know, I’d say this is a madness of the mind; as long as thoughts exist, so too will this unfortunate disease.”

“We… we all hated it, in the end. There was nothing left. We could not even stand the sight of what we did have for… for years.”

“Thought is persistent, eternal, and unkillable. The choice to remain sane must be made every day.” It didn’t sound like something Bilbo pulled out of his ass.

“I take it you have the same one on your hands?”

“Always. Until I die.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Raise your parents.”

“No.”

“Do… do you think you’ll be able to get your soul back?”

“Maybe.”

“How do you stay alive? One would think that Smaug would not play games with what’s owed to him.”

“He tried. Multiple times. I did something very twisted to get a leg up in this rat race of ours.”

“What is it?”

“We are connected to our souls in an unbreakable bond. When I sold my soul, A bond was established with Smaug, allowing him to keep track of me and, more importantly, his due. But a bond goes two ways, so I did a ritual so that I can feel him, always. He’s got my name and number, and I’ve got his. There is nothing he can do that will surprise me, anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness! Let me know what you think


	11. Decisions, Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo comes to a conclusion. He and Thorin grow closer.

Bilbo’s insistence on going to the marketplace wins out eventually, and they wind up back in civilization, deviating slightly from their southern path to find themselves in a bustling town set up above a river. In fact, if one were to walk from the banks to its southern gate, one would find themselves travelling roughly 350 yards. Steep yards, too. Because of this, there’s a water-carrying system that is heavily guarded.

The marketplace Bilbo wanted to go to takes place in the main square, with a veritable labyrinth of tents and wares and hawkers forming above the dust and cobblestones with walls of brick and mortar and rust orange adobe that seems to glow in the red evening light. 

They take up in a rather large hotel, with Oin arranging their stay (he is, after all, one of the more even tempered dwarves), and Bilbo all but disappeared in the lot of them. He may have insisted on coming, but he no more likes people than Thorin does.  

Installed in the two largest rooms the inn has to offer, they bed down for the night, with Gandalf in one room, Bilbo in the other, and the rest split between them. As Bilbo sits on the bed with Frodo held gently to his dark heart, Thorin wonders how a creature so dark can be gentle and kind without aim or scheme. He pushes it off. No use wondering that. It doesn’t do to get caught up in the inner workings of what would normally be his enemy. 

“Hold him?” Bilbo says, almost distractedly, eyes cloudy with thought, face closed with a troubled look that Thorin hadn’t seen before. The lost king accepts the bundle and takes Bilbo’s place on the edge of the bed. The child really is a cute one, he supposes.

 

…

 

“I can’t take him with me,” Bilbo says to Gandalf as he stares out over the sleeping town. Guards strolled by slowly, silently. Keeping watch. They always seem to be heavier at inns and such. Especially when Bilbo is around.

“No, I don’t suppose you can.”

“I can’t leave him either.”

“No.” They are silent for a while.

“Is he what you really wanted? He part of your goals?”

“Bilbo…”

“Don’t. Just answer the question. I’m so damn tired of playing guessing games with you.”

“My lad, you never did like games, did you?”

“Is he what you came for?”

“I came for a lot of reasons, but at this point I’m confident you no longer need me. At any rate, I’ve been forbidden to actually go to Mordor, so I would have had to withdraw eventually.” Here, he pauses. For what, Bilbo doesn’t know. “But, yes, I’ve come for the boy. He has great power, just beneath the skin. If you hadn’t liberated him, I would have had to.”

“And if I claim him?”

“You would have him grow up without you?”

“Who says I’ll die?”

“Because of your life. You and I both know you’re running out of time, Bilbo. He owns you. Owns your soul, and you cannot run forever.”

“I know. But… ah, it’s no use, I suppose. He would grow up fatherless whether I claim him or not. I just thought… if he could know that someone wanted him…”

“You think I’ll let him won’t guide him?”

“I think you will. But you have  the tendency to put your duties as a wizard above all else. As much as you can’t help that sometimes, it will hurt him eventually. The more he loves you, the more he’ll feel.”

“And you claiming him will what? Let him know that someone out there wanted him enough to claim him but not enough to hang around?”

“Sometimes the best thing you can do for someone is to not be there.”

“He’ll hate you a lot more than he’ll hate me if that happens.”

“If I’m not there, than that will be a good thing, no? The boy is mine, Gandalf. His name is Frodo Baggins, he is my child, and I do not care what you have to say about it. Take him and go, before he gets hurt. He is too young for such things,” Bilbo stated. Gandalf looked down at him for a long moment, and knew he would not convince the dark warlock of anything else.

“Very well.”

The next morning, they bid Gandalf goodbye, small child wrapped up in his cloak. Bilbo feels a bit empty after he leaves, and it puts him in a foul mood. The company seems to understand that the silence is not a good one.

They spend all morning at the market, splitting up into ones, twos, and threes to buy what they wished and what they want. Of their number, Bilbo and Thorin are the last to leave, as they both stand with a list of half the things they need (the regular supplies have been split up already. Food to Gloin, medical to Oin, so on and so forth).

“I realize you shouldn’t be seen buying any of this, but there are people here who won’t sell them to me,” Bilbo says quietly. He and Thorin stand shoulder to shoulder, turned in on their piece of paper in the quiet of their empty lodgings.

“You think they don’t know me? I’m about as infamous as you are.”

“Yes, but if you buy four bottles of Aether people assume that the souls you’ll be capturing belong to dark warlocks. I buy them and they think I’m going to kill the whole town off before tea time.” Thorin looks down at Bilbo, gaze cold and unmoving. Bilbo matches him.

“We should have just gotten Bifur to buy these,” Thorin says after a moment.

“Yes. I suppose that would have been the wisest thing to do.”

“Fine. I’ll handle the Aether. And it had better not be for mass murder.” Bilbo’s mouth twists a bit, one side pulling up in mild amusement.

“How could you think that of me? I’ve never harmed a soul.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yes. Been a bit deep in the pipe weed since I turned thirty three. You ever want to tack a few years onto the end of your life, go ahead and start now. Maybe it’ll get rid of that frown of yours.” Thorin can scarcely keep the grin off his face.

“Hobbit pipeweed is weak. The dwarven strains are much better.” They have, by now, made the stairs and begun to descend them.

“That’ll take a few years off your life, my dear.”

“What’s a few years if you live to be five hundred?”

“Either very much or very little, I suppose. Depends on the dwarf. And whether or not he’s been deep in the cups for a lot of important stuff.”

“Got that right.”

They fall quiet in their amusement as Bilbo leads the way through the tavern on the first floor and out into the bright daylight. 

“To buy, then.”

“Yes.” They split up, Bilbo wandering east, while Thorin keeps on out into the thick of it all. Neither of them are sure where the magic stalls are at, but they know they shouldn’t be seen together when they finally do find it.

Eventually, Bilbo winds up ducking and weaving among canvas tents that seem to have a darker, more powerful aura to them then the rest of the open air market. It’s also less populated; far more people are concerned with food and with darning than they are with magic.

The stalls here, though, are just as widely varied. Bilbo passes several shops with Aether bottles, and doesn’t look twice at them, lest he give himself away. In addition to them, charm strings hang like fringe chosen in bad taste from the roof of tent mouths. There are no recycled body parts in evidence but there are things to use on them should one find themselves in possession of some toes, including several different models of the small pot Bilbo had used some nights earlier. Swords, both plain and engraved, along with the tools to do the latter, sit like trophies behind their watchful salesmen and women, dwarves, and dwarrowdam.

Thankfully, Bilbo sees neither hobbit or elf. 

Eventually, the occurrences of staves becomes more frequent until Bilbo finds a stall specializing in both them, swords, and engraving tools, with small selection of charms in wooden lock boxes. Bilbo approaches slowly, eyes on everything, focus on the keeper. He draws close to the entrance and waits quietly until the owner makes eye contact with him. 

Bilbo sees black hair and a hawk nose, crystalline blue eyes, a razor cut of a mouth, broad shoulders, and big, rough hands. He smirks, gets up to the counter, and says, in the most conversational tone:

“It seems I’ve developed a thing for beards, love.”

“Mahal’s _ balls _ , I’d had hope that you would die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have good news and bad news. The good news is: school is almost over, I don't feel quite so stressed with most of the year behind me, I've finished my original story (clocking in at 65,00 words, too), I'm almost done with a story that I won't post until after it's written (to see if there's a difference in quality), and I'm back.  
> The bad news is school is ALMOST, not actually, over, the pressure's not off just yet, and I have my AP shit directly in front of me.   
> In conclusion: hold on. I'm working on the timing. 
> 
> This chapter's almost three pages in google docs, so it's a bit longer than the 2 page standard (and minimum) I have for a fanfiction chapter. I know where they story's going, so it's not writer's block I'm dealing with (thank fuck). Wish me luck, and I'll get regular with the writing when I can.
> 
> Please comment and let me know what you think.


	12. The Staff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo gets his staff.

“I know,” Bilbo said, a bemused expression on his face.

“What do you want this time?”

“Well, I may have gotten into a bit of a pissing match with a certain man sized pest, and now I’m off on an adventure with several dwarvish companions, so I’m in need of a staff.”

“What happened to your last one?” Bilbo’s bland and mildly amused expression does not change as he looks up a bit, trying to remember which staff it was this specific trader had sold him last time, and where it was.

“Ah! That one was stolen! By a friend of mine, no less.” the woman cocked a black eyebrow at him.

“Look, darlin’, I get around. I’ve had a lot of staffs. It’s hard to keep track of which ones were sold to me by who and where they perished.” The dwarrowdam (hard to tell, with a face like that) pursed her thin mouth and then-

“What did you have in mind.”

“Something durable.”

“The durable ones are harder to work.”

“I don’t need easy.” She gave him a harder look. 

“Who are you going with?”

“You’ll see soon enough. He does like to see what I get up to when no one is looking.” In the next moment, Bilbo had disappeared, and Thorin Oakenshield takes his place quite suddenly, aether bottles already bought and stored in his satchel.

“Dis!” he says, surprised.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed, motioning Thorin behind the table and into the shadowy depths of her canvas shop.

“Buying aether bottles. You?” Thorin says dryly, clasping forearms with his sister and wrapping the other around his back. They are the same size, and they’d done this many times, so the movements are as smooth as water.

“Not that! Why are you here?” Thorin gets a little quieter, a little less… well like Bilbo.

“Smaug… it’s time to bring him to the end.”

“You’re travelling with a demon,” she says flatly. If Thorin was surprised she knew of Bilbo’s existence, he didn’t say.

“That’s no demon.”

“Then what is he?”

“I do not know, but a demon he is not.” there is a moment where they merely stand there, chest to chest, leather armor to leather armor, and then:

“Be careful.”

“Aye, Dis. I will.” Bilbo reappeared.

“About that staff?”

 

…

 

The next morning, the group sets out before the sun is up. Thorin is late returning to the inn, preferring to spend time with his sister before he left her for what may be the final time, and dark circles were evidence of his lack of sleep. There was much to talk about.

Bilbo, too, has not slept, but it’s not because of the sister.

The staff he bought yesterday was cut from the trunk of a thin and twisted cherry tree, the wood light brown and twisted still, the end of the staff blooming into an empty brace to hold a gem. As it had been in life, the tree was difficult to bend or manipulate and slippery to change magically. As a result, Bilbo had spent the wee hours out in the only empty stall in the stable, working it over for hours until it was pliant and warm in his hands.

Dis sells good staves.

Just an hour before it was time to rise, he removed a hand from the staff, which glowed in his mind’s eye, and circled his wrist and fingers in the air in a lazy, almost come-hither movement, summoning a deep purple gem, as round and as smooth as though it were carved and cut by a careful dwarven smith.

That is not the case.

Carefully, he feeds the weighty stone into the grip of the cherry tree staff, small hands strong and steady on the wood and stone, careful not to allow the staff to snap close too soon or too tightly. A staff like this could break the very gem he was trying to get it to bond with. 

The wood creaks and groans. 

The gem hums.

They meet, and Bilbo sees gold and purple in his third eye. The auras lined up with each other. Meet. Feel. Attempt to mix. Bilbo keeps his magical grip, but relaxes it by small increments. Slowly, carefully, the purple and gold mix into a reddish brown.

He lets go entirely.

The bond holds. 

He releases his breath.

He rises and holds the staff in his hand, feeling for the balance of this new, weightier object. He swings it up onto his shoulder and then out like a bat, feeling the power and the stability of a night of magic working on a well made staff. 

He hooks his old weapon onto his belt and sets the thin tip of the staff on the ground, using it as a walking stick as he steps over to the inn to prepare to leave. 

He meets Thorin at the entrance (a window in their room on the top floor with at an angle fairly easy to swing to from the roof) and meets his eyes. Clear blue ones, dark under gas lamppost light, meet his and then flick to the new staff in his hand.

“That’s quite handsome,” he says, and Bilbo finds himself hoping that it is not just the staff he’s referring to.

“Thank you, oh Leader of Mine.” he says, stepping inside when the door is opened for them. Dwalin is on the other side, grumbling at being the one charged with going down to let them in. 

“If you two are going to fuck please stay where ever you did it at.”

“Dwalin, you know I’m not that obvious.” Bilbo says dryly as he shuts the window behind him.


	13. Eye in the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Thorin do a little teamwork.

In the morning, they move on, all stocked up on supplies. For the first part of the day’s trek, Bilbo’s new staff rests over his shoulder as he rides Myrtle, eyes up on the horizon. Next to him, Thorin tries very hard not to look over and just watch. His team is watching.

As good as a dwarf may be in battle, they are terrible at subtext, and he needs them all to maybe not start whispering about what he really thinks of the burglar. It’s bad enough that Dwalin already has his suspicions.

Quite suddenly, as they travel across an open plain of unowned territory, Thorin twists sharply in his seat to stare at the horizon over Bilbo’s head.

“What is it?”

“We need to get to cover. Now. Stormlings!” Thorin shouts. The rest of the group does not question the order, but breaks into a full gallop towards the foot hills at the base of the blue mountains. Bilbo turns to Thorin.

“Well, hell. How many?”

“Three score, at least.”

“And you’re going to fight them.” he says. It’s phrased like a question, but Thorin knows it’s not.

“Yes.”

“I’m staying.”

“Dwalin is joining me.”

“Dwalin has his hands full.”

“Will you quit arguing and go?”

“No. Too often has something greater travelled amidst a scourge of stormlings.” Thorin looks to Bilbo as the wind whips his mass of curly blond hair. He has until they reach the foothills to make his decision. 

After two hours of solid riding, the ponies are exhausted.

Dwalin jumps from his and rolls to his feet in a well practiced move, unhooks one hammer from his belt loop, and slams it down onto the grass. Instantly the earth moves up around the group, an entire column of grass and dirt begins to form in a whirlwind around the huddled group. Just for a moment, he turns and looks back.

Thorin’s pony is held in the grip of Ori’s hand, and Bilbo’s bags are next to it.

He has to decide now. Thorin holds up a closed fist. The hill forms. The dwarves are gone. 

“Myrtle,” Bilbo says as he dismounts. The pony shakes her head as soon as he works off the halter. Suddenly, it’s not a pony in front of him, but a strange cat-like beast with wings.

“Good girl,” he grunts as he pats her back

“You’ve been riding a griffin this whole time,” Thorin remarks, utterly less than impressed as the storm clouds draw close and droplets begin to fall.

“Ponies are way too expensive to be killing them off every damn time I take to the road.” Bilbo says as he swings his staff in a circle a few times before hooking it into its holder on his back. He unhooks his bat and twists it to reveal the spikes all up and down its body.

“So I  _ will _ be seeing whether or not you can use that.”

“Of course I can use it.” Bilbo says as his eyes begin to glow a pale white, next to Thorin’s crystal blue. He unsheathes his sword as the rain gets heavier. In certain parts of the storm, the droplets don’t seem to be falling directly down or at all naturally. One begins to coalesce into a semi solid form.

The glow in his eyes extend down through his veins, collects in the stone of his sword’s pommel, down underneath the leather grip of the handle, and out along the fine filigree and the edges of the blade proper.

With a smooth flick he disbands the gathering water. There is more where that comes from. Dozens of stormlings are forming by the second. They work back to back to wipe them out and not get separated, while Myrtle runs interference, drawing her own crowd is stormlings. She’s such a good cornufelus. Bilbo will have to reward her. 

She bats apart stormlings with her wings and, unlike many winged cats, does not flinch at the water.

“I can sense something!” Bilbo screams above the rushing water and fully formed storm. The horde has grown larger, and Thorin can hear a note of desperation in Bilbo’s voice. He needs to start wiping them out. 

“Bilbo! Give me five seconds!”

“Aye!” Bilbo slams his staff into the ground, creating a ring of something dark and sickly that rolls outwards at a fast pace. 

“Ten!” Thorin takes a deep breath and tilts his face up as Myrtle draws close. He takes in the smell of water and the creeping fug of the stormlings. He raises one hand, careful to keep his sword arm pointed outwards. Bright blue eyes slip closed. Seven seconds. 

As quickly as he can, he pulls all the power of the storm so that it builds up and collects directly over his head.

Two seconds.

“Duck!” he yells, and Bilbo grabs his mount and hauls the both of them nearer to Thorin and down to the muddy ground. All the electricity in the storm strikes Thorin’s outstretched hand, travelling down his arm, through his body, and out along Orcrist. The weapon itself maintains its shape, but the energy in it elongates and then spreads to either side of itself to form a giant scythe. Any stormling near it is instantly evaporated. 

In one smooth move, he swings his weapon in a circle, throwing off a wave of energy as cyclical as its path. No creature is left unvanquished, and Bilbo’s own short burst of power is as dead as its aura.

A few more moments, and Thorin pulls Bilbo to his feet. The other man’s mount is anxious, snorting through it’s large feline nose, ears flicking in agitation. Dark eyes track across the shortened horizon. A small hand relinquishes Thorin’s vambrace.

“Steady on, Myrtle. This one’s mine, yeah?” the cornufelus seems to understand, because it presses up along Thorin’s side.

Bilbo steps away from Thorin. Whatever is out there, the dwarf can sense it, too.

“Bilbo…” he says softly. The presence is growing stronger, and, whatever it is, it’s a lot like their resident guide.

Then it’s gone. Just like that, there’s nothing but rain and heavy, pregnant clouds blocking out the sun. Bilbo, whose hand has been around his staff the whole time, swings it out, gem in the crown glowing. It’s a menacing glow, this time.

The rain begins to let up.

The sun peaks through.

Whatever was watching is no longer there. Bilbo and Thorin’s eyes meet.

“What was that?”

“I don’t know, but I have no doubt it will be back.”

“Why was it here?”

“To find me, most likely, and to see if rain still muddles my senses, I’m guessing.” That makes sense, Thorin supposes, because there's no way in hell that a storm like that was natural.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so late guys but pleeeeease tell me what you think okay?


	14. Midas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet an old friend

They decide to press on, and don’t meet any resistance for days. The mountains rise up around them and the storms hit and ground them but no more spells roll in cloaked in clouds. On the fifth day, the group is sequestered in a large cave above a wide path, forged centuries ago from when dwarves lived in the area and made it their main thoroughfare. Now it’s naught but a river, with all this rain.

Ori looks out at the rushing water, curiosity written on his face.

“You’d think there would be bandits on this path.”

“No. They are all scared of this place.”

“Why?”

“Because I traverse it,” Bilbo says simply, eyes on the murky horizon, tense with all the waiting.

“What does it matter if you traverse it?”

“I’m prone to hunt down those who grace the Wide Pass with their thievery and pillaging and use them for spells.”

“And you just… do it.”

“Yes.” Ori looks across the fire at Dwalin, who cocks an eyebrow at him.

“How have you not shown up on any of the ransom lists?”

“Because,” Bilbo says as he stands up and, staff in hand, moves towards the entrance of the cave. The group, seeing Bilbo’s stance, silently take up their weapons as well. “I don’t leave survivors!” he says, swinging the staff out, gem glowing darkly as it spits out a burst of diluted magic, hitting whoever is just on the other side of the cave entrance.

“Dammit, boy!” someone yells out. Bilbo jumps clear of the cave, braving the freezing rain. 

“Midas!” he steps out of view of the dwarves. He gets in a quick kiss on his old friend’s mouth and murmurs: “do be careful. They tolerate my magic, but they might try to kill you for yours. Also they know about Mordor, but not everything.”

“My thanks,” he says as he runs his hands down Bilbo, “you look so much better.” Bilbo smiles and steps back before turning and leading his friend inside.

“You’ve all heard of Midas before.” In an instant, Dori is on his feet, a short sword unsheathed.

“He raised my mum!”

“Aye, hey!” Bilbo yells as he jumps between the two. “Enough! We’re rained in together, don’t start this now!”

“You’re supposed to be dead!”

“I’m supposed to be a lot of things, baker, but dead is not one of them.” Midas says, hand extended and fingertips glowing black. The group, up in arms at the explosive entrance of Bilbo’s friend, looks very confused. Except for Nori. Because Nori never looks confused.

“Really, Midas? That’s what you’re going by now?” the redhead asks as he fingers a knife.

“I’ve been going by Midas, tyke.”

“Not a tyke.” The playful blue eyes take Nori in without ever looking at him.

“Aye, I suppose not.”

“Oi. I’m talking to you.”

“You’re glowering at me. There is a massive difference.”

“Put the weapons away,” Bilbo says in earnest. He does not have time for this. Not when they all have to sit together until the rain lets up.

“That thing cannot stay with us,” Dori says back, and Bilbo can see he is this close to attacking. Bilbo lets his staff hit the ground, creating a wall between Midas and the rest of the group. Then he turns to Dori.

“I would be dead without him, and then who would take you to your precious quest’s end, then?”

“We would find someone.” Bilbo snorts

“Yeah. Sure you would. No one knows the way but me. Now, everyone is not going to make with the murdering, and we’re all going to wait out this storm, and we can decide what to do in the meantime.

“He turned our mother into a living corpse.”

“Well, and he went to Mordor for it, so kindly take a damn seat already,” Bilbo snaps at him.

“Dori,” Thorin says, and it seems to be enough. The group slowly sinks back down, though all weapons stay handy.

“And for fucks’ sake, Bilbo, drop the wall,” their leader says next.

Bilbo does, and he tugs Midas in to sit with him. 

“So, oh wandering hobbit, what has landed you here?”

“You seen Gandalf lately?”

“Can’t say I have.” he says, scrubbing a hand through his long, curly black beard.

“He made me a deal.”

“And you trust it?”

“No, but at this point, the debt he would incur from breaking it would be too damn high for him.”

“What did he promise you this time? Your wings?”

“How did you know?”

“If I was you, that’s what I would want.”

“Ah. Well, yes, that’s what he promised. What are you up to?”

“I come bearing bad news.”

“Aye?”

“Smaug is extending his territory. The surrounding towns of goblins and of orcs have all been taken over, now, and the dead never rest there.”

“How unfortunate.”

“Yes.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Erebor.”

“Why?”

“My home died while I was gone. I would like to see it once again. To make sure it is indeed lost to me and to others. I figure, if I can get back, maybe I’ll give up the dead man’s game.” Bilbo nudged his shoulder.

“You always say that.”

“Yes, but now is the time to see if it holds truth, yes?” Midas says.

“Yes, indeed.” and Bilbo, worried as he is for his friend, feels warm now, in the presence of the man who, for a few precious hours, ruled the world with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think, please!


	15. Electric Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The band gets a fun surprise.

Unfortunately, the rains continued to come down heavily, locking the dwarves into their hidey-hole for the better part of three days. The confinement serves to make things happen within the group. 

Dori, and, by extension, Nori and Ori, are all ignoring Midas, who seems fine with it. This, unfortunately, serves to stilt the already tense conversing going on between Bilbo and the dwarves. Thorin, for the most part a silent observer, doesn’t like it at all, because Bilbo says interesting things. 

This silence binge pushes Bilbo and Midas to talk exclusively to each other, so many hours are spent with them with them speaking quietly in a language no one understands. Irksome as this particular habit of Bilbo’s is, no one can speak to it, as many a conversation has been carried out in Khuzdul, much to his exclusion, and it’s not like the rest of their party is talking outside their family. 

The good thing, though, is that there is something Bilbo trusts Midas to watch for that he doesn’t trust anyone else on, so when night rolls around, Midas, with a laugh, commands (or at least, sounds like he commands) Bilbo to sleep. 

Unable to just hand over the safety of his group to a stranger (no matter how much Bilbo vouches for him), Thorin finds himself awake during Midas’ watch, and the two, though they try to avoid each other’s gazes, don’t manage it for more than an hour. 

Quite without commanding it to, Thorin’s gaze settles on where Bilbo is asleep, the top of his curly head near Midas’ thigh, one plump cheek hidden by the bedroll. His eyes, always so guarded, are closed, and the bags underneath visible. Thorin wonders why he didn’t notice them before. He looks up to find that black gaze on his face. A bushy eyebrow cocks, and his mouth pulls to one side in a smirk. Thorin raises both brows, nonchalantly dismissing his staring.

Midas looks away. 

 

…

 

The next day, in the early afternoon, the water seems to be letting up. Bilbo, curious to see if this is the case, steps out onto the wide ledge from which he had first attacked Midas. He looks down, where the torrent of water is starting to lower, and then up at the still pregnant clouds. Bilbo turns to look at Thorin, to shake his head, but he never gets the chance.

A spear, small and wicked and dark, the blade barbed half a dozen times on either side, pierces him through his lower right abdomen. Bilbo screams, drops, and struggles to get back inside the cave. He pushes himself up to a wall and closes his eyes. From the ground and the rock at his back grows an entire rose bush, thorns creating a shell for him to hide behind, flowers alive and carnivorous with small, jagged-toothed mouths.

“Well, hell,” Midas says as he draws his weapon. A short sword with a black blade and white filigree shines in the grey light as he inches to the edge of the cave.

“Smaug! I know you’re there!” he yells out. This does not seem to be his first time doing this, so the dwarves, all of which have their weapons drawn, get into position. Dirt is kicked on the fire, Thorin jerks his head at Dwalin. The earth warlock moves to the back of the cave, where the animals are all tied down, and sits just out of reach of them, his hands on the ground. He shakes his head; he’s got nothing. Whoever this is, he’s in the air. 

Midas shakes his head, curly hair tossing as he works up some kind of spell. The sword in his hand grows wider and heavier and longer; a warlock’s blade. 

“Kili?” Asks Thorin, and his nephew darts out from behind the safety of the others and fires off three shots in a row in different directions.

“Four yards out, three back, five up.” Thorin seems to be thinking about that before he gives two jerks of his head. 

“Dwalin.” The dwarf in question animates a chunk of earth to protect Kili as he darts out again with arrows charged by Thorin’s lightning and shoots them at the location he’d pinpointed. All three strike true, but the target disappears in a puff of smoke at the first contact.

“It’s no good,” Midas says after a shake of his head, “he’s gone. If you could seal the cave though?” The fire is resurrected, and the cave becomes just another part of the mountain at Dwalin’s coaxing.

“Bilbo…” Midas calls, his voice going all gentle as he approaches the demonic black roses. “Bilbo let me help you.” The flowers hiss and try to bite him. “You won’t get it out on your own.” Midas reaches one thick hand out and nearly loses a finger.

“Bilbo, I’ll cut it all down if I have to.” The little beasts get bigger, forcing Midas back with their increased radius. “If you die because you’re being stubborn, I will raise you just so I can kill you again.” The roses spit venom, pushing him back further.

“Love, I have never let you down before,” he gently reminds. The roses seem to be a bit confused by that, as though they are suddenly asking themselves: did he? He takes a tiny step closer and, when their aggression does not tick upward again, he attempts to touch one. 

There is a moment when Thorin thinks they’ll have to cauterize the hand after the fingers are bitten off, but then It presses its velvety head into his palm, as do the rest. Like a mummy's wrappings, the vines unravel before his eyes to reveal a Bilbo much less held together than he’s ever seen before. 

“Shh,” he says to the plants as he gently takes stock of the spear and the body impaled by it. “He got you good, didn’t he?”

Bilbo doesn’t answer, his eyes hazy and unfocused, lids blinking slowly

“I’m going to lift you,” Midas says as the roses rub up against him like cats. “There we go,” he murmurs as he motions for help.

With Oin’s help, he gets the hobbit settled half on his side, spear not quite touching the ground.

“Come hold it, please.” he says as he works carefully with a small black switch-knife to cut through the wood of the spear. Eventually, the head clinks against the stone floor, shining in the newly lit firelight. 

“This next part is tricky. Would you be obliged to help?” he says to Thorin.

“With what?”

“Whenever I have to do this spell, he takes to eating energy like one would eat food. I would like you to provide that energy.” Thorin sits at Bilbo’s head with a shrug and threads his fingers through his hair, palms laying against his scalp, the tips of his hands laying against his pointy ears.

Ever so slowly, Oin pushes the spear’s shaft the rest of the way through so that Midas can get at the hole in Bilbo’s body. He places one hand on either side of the injury and, while Dwalin holds down his big hobbit feet, Midas begins to mutter. 

Black lines of forbidden speech show up all over his skin. Heretofore unseen rings become visible on his fingers and arms. His body grows thin and emaciated right before his eyes. Thorin feeds more energy to him, trying to stop the terrible lessening. This is not what his Bilbo- his guide, his dark magician- looks like. 

For the first time, Thorin realizes Bilbo’s plump and well fed appearance is very well studied. If this- this broken piece of creature- is what Bilbo looks like when he’s done to much to himself, well, he’d want to look fat too.

Bilbo’s eyes, unfocused and blind with the pain, pop wide open, pupils glowing Thorin’s electric blue. He grits his teeth and bares them at the same time. Tears start to leak out of the corners of his eyes, all of which have a blue pearlescent glow to them.

Suddenly, it’s done. The light goes out in Midas’ hands, leaving beside a dark, spreading mark like a sinkhole on Bilbo’s abdomen and his cutaway shirt. Strained breathing turns to gasping, and BIlbo’s small, skeletal hands grip at Thorin’s knee as he turns on his side. HIs cheek now rests in Thorin’s palm and the leader of their band just keeps pumping energy, if only to make him look alive again.

“Not bad,” Midas says with approval. His dark gaze casts over both Bilbo and Thorin. “I’ve seen dwarves faint from that one before.


	16. The Flatlands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarves leave the mountain behind.

The rains force the dwarves to stay in the cave for several more days, most of which is slept through by Bilbo. The times he does open his eyes are brief and unnerving; with all of his magic being diverted from his appearance and into his healing, his blind eyes are clearly visible, with their cataracts and wandering, unfocused appearance. 

Mostly, though, he sleeps, so the dwarves need not worry about how they can seem to pin a body in place without ever knowing it is there. The other thing about Bilbo is how close Midas stays. He seems to be doing his best not to be too affectionate, but there are times when his thick, callused fingers will stroke down over a cheekbone or run through hair streaked black and silver, for magic and, after that, age. 

There is also the fact that he settles around the hobbit’s back at night, arm laying protectively over where Thorin knows Bilbo’s scar to be. Sometimes, he doesn’t stop himself from stroking the black mark on Bilbo’s stomach when he checks to make sure it is healing.

Bilbo, after all, is older than hobbits ought to be. Thorin wonders if maybe it has driven him a bit barmy. 

One evening when the waters have fallen dozens of feet and still have dozens more to go, Bilbo’s eyes do not just open briefly and sleepily. The lids snap up like something has been severed, and Bilbo bolts up from his place beneath his blankets, breathing sharp and fast as though he has been chased. 

The dwarves look at each other and their guide, and the only movement is from Bombur where he mechanically stirs the pot with their dwindling stores.

Finding his legs still entrapped in fabric, Bilbo struggles for a moment before freeing himself and pushing himself up. Laying down that long has taken a toll on his balance, and he only just manages to stay standing. Midas reaches out to grip his arm, but the other dark magician grunts at him and shakes him off as he hurriedly wobbles over to the cave entrance, only to walk into it.

“Out,” he barks, voice deep and rumbly with sleep. Per Dwalin’s guidance, the earth falls away, and Bilbo, in nothing but his smallclothes and utterly blind, stares out at the wet, grey landscape. His lips and nose pulls back into a snarl, though he makes no noise. 

“Bilbo…” Thorin says.

“Don’t touch me.” There is silence for several minutes. Then Bilbo shakes his head and stretches one small hand back into the cave. The staff, which he has not held in over a week, flies to his hand. From the twisted cherry tree wood something dark and poisonous spills out and warps into long, thin plates of armor with grooves thinner than a hair and dark filigree etched along the natural lines of his armor.

He turned back to the cold air and shook his hand, distending claws and then withdrawing them. He turns back and gazes at them all, and this time, he sees them.

“Where is Smaug?” he says, sharp gaze on Midas’ face.

“He is headed in the direction of his lair. I believe he wishes to taunt you.”

“I will rip out his heart and eat it before he dies,” snarls, angry and antsy. He paces, a caged lion, and Thorin sends a prayer up to Mahal and, in case she still claims him, Yavanna that they make this easier than it should be; they still have several days until their gully drains of water, and Bilbo is ready to go now.

 

…

 

They try really hard not to talk. While the water falls lower and food becomes scarce enough that Bilbo must summon his demon plants and combine magics with Thorin to make the fruit and vegetables edible. Other than that, they try not to communicate with the dark warlock. He spends most of his time guarding the entrance to the cave, eyes hard and watchful. Even Midas does not dare disrupt him. 

They stink and they are all cranky and irritated by the time damp rock is revealed to them. Then, with a relief not unlike having an piece of metal that had caused infection removed, they are off.

Their mounts, especially Myrtle, are just as skittish. More than once has she seen Smaug’s minions sprout from the rivers and lakes to try and gut her master. As they load up their considerably lighter saddlebags and pray to run into a river safe to bathe in soon, Bilbo twists around to face the cave with the rose bush still blooming. 

He didn’t want to leave it behind, but he could hardly take it with him; he would have to feed it, and since he had literally sprouted it from his aura, that would need to sustain it. Either that or the staff. He simply didn’t have time to grow the little thing to completion, and he did not wish to unmake it. 

If he survived this, he would need to come back and see how his baby grew in the mountains; it would not be long before Smaug chose to push his luck and attempt to extend his territory towards hobbiton by separating it from the original, after all. His trick with the spear does not come without warning.

Eventually, though, they do leave the mountains, and make their way across the fertile soil of the flatlands on the other side. The rivers, which spread wide and bountiful across the land, get their water from underground springs. The banks are flooded now, though, with the recent rains and the overflow from the mountains. 

In places, the green plains where wild rice grows despite the winter elsewhere grows bumpy, and the water collects in little pools with eddies at their edges where it continued to flow into the river proper once more. 

It is in one particularly large place that they decide to stop for the long awaited bathing. With Fili and Kili to see to the horses (sans Myrtle. Bilbo’s little lady needs no handling), the rest of the dwarves strip off and make their way into the water, safe in the knowledge that Bilbo’s far seeing eye will see any enemy, now that the rains have stopped.

At some point after Oin had exited the water to take Fili and Kili’s place with the horses and baggage, they heard Bilbo shout from where he perched on the overhang above their pool. The dwarves tumbled and splashed out of the water to grab weapons and run after Bilbo. 

What they saw appeared to be their hobbit fighting a giant bear. After a moment, it was clear the fight was friendly, and the two were just wrestling.

“Dammit, Bilbo!” Midas barked where he stood. Bilbo twisted his head where he lay pinned under the bear’s large bulk.

Thirteen dwarves stood stark naked with the setting sun framing their backs and… other things. Bilbo just lay there beneath his friend, dying. The bear also looked particularly amused, as he settled down with Bilbo between his forelegs and gave what seems to be a bear version of a chuckle. 

“Everyone... This is Beorn,” he said as he finally caught his breath.


	17. Beorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's favorite bear-man goes on the offensive, and Bilbo must explain.

Supper that evening is the first real meal the dwarves have had in quite some time. Long lines of salmon (how Beorn has salmon, of all things, this far inland, Bilbo does not know), smoked over the fire with different combination of herbs steam in piles on wooden, rectangular trays in the center of the table, alternating with pots of spicy, salty, and savory soup, respectively. Side dishes hold garlic bread, brown bread, cheese bread, jalapeno bread, cheese, bread stuffed with cheese, and breaded fried cheese. A tankard of ale sits at each place, with two caskets rolled out and spigoted for the occasion. On a side board on the other side of the room sits pies with blackberry, strawberry, blueberry, plum, and mixed berry fillings, along with lemon meringue and cheesecake.

At the head of the table sits Beorn, with Bilbo to his right, Midas to his left, and Thorin on the other end with Dwalin to his right, his nephews to his left, and everyone else between the. No one talks for a good while as plates and bowls are loaded up and eaten, tankards drained, and all of it filled and emptied all over again.

Eventually, though, the eating slows, the deserts are had, and Beorn speaks.

“I was not aware of your preoccupation with Smaug, Thorin Oakenshield.” Thorin looks up from his food and takes a moment to swallow.

“He claimed our lands and burned whatever he could.”

“You had been chased out by the mountain. What does it matter what the dragon does when you have already lost your birthright?” Every dwarf at the table stiffens, eyes flicking between the master of the House, forks and spoons and cups frozen in their journeys either to or from their mouths.

“Should the dwarves redeem themselves, which I believe they have or are close to it, it will matter a great deal,” Bilbo interrupts, his face utterly unimpressed by Beorn’s insensitivity.

“The territory is not even Smaug’s anymore. Dark mages and Necromancers swarmed the area long ago.”

“Maybe so, but even mages have to eat, Beorn, and that land hasn’t a single thing to sustain anyone. It won’t until Smaug’s magic has faded away.”

“Are you defending this foolhardy quest because you have undertaken it or because you have your own reasons for going?” Bilbo’s nose twitches, irritation crossing his face.

“Let me remind you that I always have my own reasons for going. But aside from that, the quest is not foolhardy, and if I thought it was I wouldn’t be here.”

The bear stares down at him, and Bilbo is not afraid to look back. 

“Very well.”

“I fail to see why any of this is your concern,” Thorin calls back, shifting Beorn’s conversation and attention back across the table.

“A dear friend of mine is likely going to die before this is done. I am not anxious to see it happen. Of course I am interested. What will you do when you get back to Erebor and the mountain rejects you again?”

“The Mountain will not reject us,” Thorin says with all the confidence a king can muster.

“And if it does?”

“It will not. But, if it does, then I will find what it is that keeps us from our home and strike it out.”

“The arrogance of your grandfather remains with you still.”

“Fuckin’ shit, Beorn,” Bilbo explodes before Thorin can. He’s a little angrier now, nose twitching even faster. “You asked me the last time I was here-”

“On death’s door, once again,”

“If I was ready to die. I told you I was. Quit hounding Oakenshield about shit that’s got nothing to do with what you really want to know. If you have a problem, you may take it up with me and me alone.”

“Do not presume to order me around in my own house, Baggins. I am not who your father thought I was.”

“My father is as dead as the rest, and I don’t care who he thought you were. I am telling you to halt this line of questioning.”

“Or what?” Beorn says, and he seems to be fairly looming now. Bilbo arches one eyebrow and looks back, unaffected by the size difference.

“Or I will leave you to your ruminating, and will trouble you no more.” There is a beat of silence. Then two, then five.

“Very well. If you choose to prance to your death, it is beyond me to stop you.”

Dinner after that is a very quiet affair.

 

…

 

Later, after the dishes have been washed and the dwarves have disbursed to the room loaned to them by Beorn, Thorin finds Bilbo out on the lowest step of the back porch, staring out into the darkness with his elbows on his knees.

“What was that, Master Baggins?”

“Beorn?”

“Hmm.”

“When I first… journeyed this way to try and bring back my parents, I stumbled upon his abode, hungry and weak from the mountains. He told me he’d met my parents, that he had played host to them many a time before they settled down.

“I told him of their deaths, and he asked if I would not stay with him for a while- to just rest and let the grief roll through me. If I was older, wiser, I would have said yes. But I did not. In the end, I stayed with him only a week before I left to pursue Smaug and the deal I knew would gain me family.

“He begged me not to- asked what part of my heart had become so confused as to think that this is what they wanted when they told me, each on their own deathbeds, to find someone.”

“I told him it would be okay, that I would do what I had to, and then go willingly to pay my dues. I didn’t see him for years after that, but when I finally did, I had already been through Mordor. Already grown into the hobbit you see today. 

“I think he wept, when he thought I wasn’t looking, both because I did not, in the end, steal my parents souls from their rightfully earned afterlife, and because I had still lost a part of myself. That time, I stayed with him for over a month, and he has been protective of me ever since. He holds hope that eventually I will be able to wriggle my way out of this price I’ve agreed to pay even more than I do, and he does not want to see me die.”

“So he attempts to shake our resolve?”

“He wanted to see what you’re made of- if you are truly the dwarf he has heard of, or merely you ancestors in disguise.”

“Ah,” Thorin says, because that makes sense. It was, after all, the greed that played a large part in the people’s downfall, and it took a long time for Thorin to accept that.

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please let me know what you think.  
> UPDATE 1.6.2017: My fandom blog is here, and if you see something you'd like written, go ahead and ask me.
> 
> https://whosefandomisitanyways.tumblr.com/


End file.
